Writer/editor/publisher/contest-runner favolosa, Alison Tyler, has done it again! This time with a challenge for us to write a 250-word story about the senses, specifically sound and hearing or the absence thereof. I somehow slid into Home and Alison wanted to interview me for her most exclusive Trollop Salon. She has titled this journalistic inquiry Elephants, Microsurgery and Guilt, which is beyond utterly perfect! Please head over there and check out our conversation.
For your psychological preparation, here is the interview-prompting story, "The Dark Room."
It was like a game. I imagine that's why he responded. In truth, I didn't want him to see me.
The hotel room resembled a ship's cabin: portholes, blackout shades rendering them lightless; a bed topped by a floating white duvet cloud; dark, wood-paneled walls. I memorized the scene before extinguishing the lamps, sliding naked into cold sheets -- the linens pulled over my head -- waiting for the door scratch of his keycard.
As agreed, the least amount of hallway fluorescence was to spill into the room upon entering.
Something crackled and was placed on the floor. An electric fabric friction accompanied his unclothing.
We wouldn't speak, at least not with words. He rolled in next to me, his breathing audible and excited. We only kissed at first, belly-to-belly, arms around each other, a perfect fit. His tongue enwrapped mine, his erection a baton between us, as if it were a baguette kept piping hot by our holding it in this fashion; resultant emissions loud, primal and uninhibited. His cock filled me as we screeched, yelped and growled. When we came it was as if we'd done this countless times before.
He slipped away to the bathroom and in that moment forgot the rule of darkness. A tile-framed window illuminated a handsome face, smiling at me, happy with the view. Then, as I heard his stream meet porcelain and water I saw it, against the opposite wall: a cane -- black, white and red -- folded into a W.
Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
Toot toot! Welcome to my stop on the Blow Hard 2009 Blog Tour. Only, since I'm rather old-fashioned, let's pretend we're travelling by train. I think it's much more romantic. And imagine the kind of locomotive from days of yore, like the 2oth Century Limited in "North by Northwest."
What are we doing here, you might be asking? Well, Sommer Marsden started it! All because of one woman's remark. But, look what happened! The happy little suckers came out of the closet and the kingdom rejoiced! And people connoitered -- even reconnoitered -- and there was dialogue, discourse, amusement, food for thought. Most important were the words and the words and the words and the words and the words and the words, even! My, there were so many of them, with a cascade of vocabularystill to come! And there shall be prizes! The more frequently you comment the greater your chance of winning, like the Lottery!
BTW: Comments are now open! The doctor is in! Anyone stopping by before but too shy to speak, you are most welcome for a return visit. Come again, comment often, in fact!
So, here we are, just past our journey's midpoint, and I thought it was time for a palate cleanser. I'd like to offer you a medley of distractions, in case you get bored. I have music, singing, pictures of funny things, videos. We go down in elevators, too! (My personal suggestion is to play the YouTube fare simultaneously, for a Babel Tower experience.)
As for today's theme I hope the title of my post gives you a tip: I'd like to guide you towards observing two senses that interest me very much, especially when it comes to sex: taste and smell -- they're intertwined. Here are two multiple choice polls, which I am leaving open forever. [Please select any and all choices in each poll before you click 'vote' -- repeat votes won't work; you only get one chance. So if, say, five options apply to you then check them and pull that voting lever!]. I'd love for you to participate! Remember, once you draw the curtain closed behind you nobody but you and your conscience will know how your vote was cast. Not even me.
My goal is that these questions and answers, besides possibly making you laugh, provoke further research and development behind the virtual curtain, in my comments section. Feel free to join in and contribute, even if you're new to these parts. You don't have to register or pay dues and can even be anonymous or naked, or both!
To add grist to the proverbial mill, here is a provocative article to start you off, and a product that claims to make semen taste its sweetest. Otherwise, according to the manufacturer, you'll need to purchase and/or digest a pineapple plantation. In a bit of a coinkidink, Sommer herself posted about taste yesterday, with a lovely compendium of information she received from Jeremy Edwards. I'm repeating it not to copycat but because it incidentally relates to my topic for today's stop. Also, there will be a quiz later. (Just kidding.) I thought it would add more stimulation to our discussion, as if we needed any.
To be honest, I feel like somewhat of a Fellatio Fraud. I realised I only write about it in spurts, no pun intended. So, last night I penned a little piece from Memory Lane. It's all true. Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent. It's not completely about fellatio, either, but it's a kind of penis portrait study, a still life. Well, yes and no... Please enjoy this page from my diary. There's been so much good writing on this Blow Hard Blog Tour that it humbles me. And, most of the preceding Tour Guides tend to write about things based in reality, or about what I call "innerings." I generally do not. One foot is always somewhere else (not sure where that is but it's not here). Oh, there's also a snippet of a piece I wrote about smell. It follows the illustration of swallow heads. At any rate, there's lots to keep your attention. The real show is the gabfest behind the scenes, in the back room, i.e. the comments area.
Once upon a time, long long ago, when people still had pubic hair, I knew a beautiful man in a country bounteous with attractive folk whose names had many vowels. He taught me things. He showed me things. He had a lovely thick snake between his legs with a branch of veins and I found that I could easily charm it, and make it expand like an accordion, sometimes just by being in the same room.
The snake cried long thin tears, clear rice noodles. Once I went away to a distant land and the beautiful man told me that while I was gone he thought of me. He recounted how he had stood one August afternoon on the Via Whatever, and as my image filled his head, so his snake filled and started to cry its fishing line noodle tear downwards, where it met the sidewalk from inside his baggy shorts. His underwear, if he wore any, was not tight fitting.
He could do nothing, he said, but stand there thinking of me, as if he were playing a game of Statue. He was stuck to the sidewalk, a strand of Spiderman's web holding him in place, going from point A to point B like a string.
A woman passed by at that very moment, he reported, and saw the clear noodle's shine -- a ray of light from his clothing, gluing him in his sneakers to the warm cement -- and gave him a very dirty look. But he was paralysed.
I took his snake inside my mouth and it performed tricks, ultimately filling my stomach with slippery warm noodles. Sometimes I would stroke him just so I could watch the spouting of Morse Code bursts. I knew they spelled something. It contained a Marconi message expressly for me. That was certain.
When he was as deep inside me as my small mouth would permit, my nose in the forestation of his curly brown, I breathed in his mix of coffee and Jack Daniels, of oceans away, the briny deep, swimming pools, bleach and sun, blended with metal and funghi porcini mushrooms grown in the pitch of wooded shadows -- collectively a dark consuming spice. I wanted to eat him. Surf and Turf.
I was always asking questions -- sometimes about words, expressions, their origins. I had not seen many snakes by that point. His was the only one a carnival member had let me see the most of and for such an extended time. I really got to know that serpent. One day after charming its head and smooth snakeskin with my too-small mouth I asked the beautiful man: "Why do they call it giving head?" In my mind there were just three possible answers; I posed each one in the form of a question:
1. Is it because the head of your snake is involved?
2. Is it because my head is the active participant?
3. Is it because your overflow resembles the head of a glass of beer, as it's filled from a spigot?
He laughed and said "All of the above."
And then we charmed each other some more.
Often, while he was still asleep, especially in the morning when his snake turned into a sturdy sapling, I would creep underneath the blanket or slither my way up his body between steamy skin and the long nightshirt he wore, which enveloped us like a hobo pouch, until I found the dormant snake, curled slightly like a snail. I would suck it slowly, a thumb without a bone, until it grew one, coming alive in my mouth and, in the process, awakening the slumbering man to whom it was attached.
I called these sessions Breakfast in Bed. They were all Self-Service, not Room. No need to call out. And you knew it would be a good day when it started with liquid protein, fortified and filling, delivered piping hot from a dependable snake.
Here is a snippet about smell, from a shorty I wrote for one of Alison Tyler's wonderful short-short-short story contests. My piece was called Around the World and it had three parts. This section took place in Roma:
We come to Rome after an extended period in a soulless Northern European country. The difference between the two places is palpable, literally. All one has to do is clamber onto the early Monday #44 bus ascending the Gianicolo hill in late July -- no air-conditioning, everyone perspiring. Women don't shave under their arms. Americans are trained to abhor this, as well as any corporal odor, but luckily my boyfriend and I are not most Americans. The #44 smells like sex on wheels and we are in olfactory heaven.
He turns to me and says "You can tell who just got fucked this morning," and I agree. The other thing: you know that everyone on the bus has a clean set of genitals; Italians are meticulous about bidet use. Every ass, pussy, cock and ball is fresh -- ready to be had and enjoyed At Any Moment. Benvenuti in Italia! We arrive at his apartment and are fucking like dogs as soon as our shoes reach the entryway floor tiles, luggage dropped, the keys still lodged and swaying in the half-open door.
GOING DOWN AROUND THE WORLD:
ALERT: If you listen closely a man says one must swallow to alleviate any discomfort while going down.
Please disembark this love train at the next village, where our Tour Guide, the delightful Marina St. Clare, will take you by the hand and carry your bags.
Here is the entire lineup, including who, um, came before, should you need to bone up! (The links go directly to the Tour posts; ditto re the Tour Guides after me. You'll be taken right to their offerings, as soon as I have the respective posts' URLs.)
Take a deep breath because you're going to need it. Tomorrow launches the first annual Blow Hard Blog Tour. Sommer Marsden (a k a Smut Girl) will deal the first blow -- I'm just giving you a little head start. In the meanwhile time to bone up, perhaps in front of a mirror.
My most excellent friend, writer Donna George Storey, has been examining different aspects of the writing life in a kind of intime online writers' workshop and has focussed on the second-person narrative voice for the past few days.
I weighed in, having written a few stories from that POV -- one that is curiously almost universally maligned -- including a little tale entitled "The Lonely Onanista," which has enjoyed some success despite the fact that it uses a voice one is supposed to avoid at all costs.
I said that in my mind the YOU of second-person placed any prospective reader right in the "driver's seat" -- a good thing! They'd just land there from above, in position -- sitting, knees bent, hands up with fingers curled as if already gripping the steering wheel -- like in old television commercials. (Or am I making that part up?)
I go into some detail about the background of the story and why I chose that particular voice to tell it.
Yesterday I was just a cock tease but now I can blow my cover. I've joined an all-girl team of contented cocksuckers for the Blow Hard 2009 Blog Tour. Beginning March 31st, this itinerant 12-day blow job feast will sing the praises of suckage -- from the mouth of one sated fellatrix at a time -- so wipe your calendar clean!
We will be offering discourse, fiction, memoirs and who knows what else -- all blow-job-centric. You can win a titillating prize! And, hey, no road tour worth its weight in ejaculate is without its roadies -- I say we call them our FlufferNutters -- so go ahead and apply! We'll need lots of help carrying our knee pads.
Idea magician Alison Tyler did it again this week with another powerhouse mind-bending short-short-story contest. This time the subject was masturbation, in 250 words, from the opposite gender's point-of-view. As it happens, I've always wondered what it would be like to have a penis (shut up, Sigmund!) and now I can happily report that it was just fine! I only wish we'd been allotted more words -- I had so many other ideas of what I could do with this handy new piece of equipment!
On my back, left eye shut, I align my hard cock with the Empire State Building -- my bedroom's eastern view -- until its antenna is a needle rising from my prick's eye -- a fleshy hypodermic, ready to inject.
The window in the opposite wall overlooks an apartment building, the nearest room close enough to jump into, were I Spiderman. Every night it presents a beautifully framed scene: a pale girl, face down on an unmade bed, naked except for knee-highs and pink stilettoed Mary Janes, ankles bound together with an ever-changing inventory of unassuming objects: a pair of shoelaces today, a scarf or dishtowel tomorrow. Her hands are beneath her, rump bobbing in air like a cork riding swiftly downstream. She hides her face under a pillow. I coordinate my strokes to match her behind's rhythmic levitations, as if posting atop a galloping horse.
My hand glides up and down my cock as her plump moons rise and fall. I grip myself, holding the Empire State Building. I wonder if the tourists on the Observation Deck know they are part of my erotic strategy. They've waited hours on line to unwittingly appear within the crosshair sight of my warm gun.
My balls ache. A feverish trail bubbles forward from the base of my spine. The Empire State Building turns into a geyser, a firework display. On the landmark's 86th floor dozens of Japanese visitors wearing I [HEART] NY buttons open black umbrellas simultaneously. I reach for a tissue.
Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
I'm the guest there today in Welcome to Hotel Guacamole, with a short-story originally crafted for one of the inimitable Alison Tyler's writing exercises/contests. I thought this 517-word offering, Fucking Green, would be particularly appropriate for Suite 69 as it has to do with sex, food...and hotel sheets.
Thank you so much, Donna, for letting me trample your corridors and peek into the other rooms. There's so much to see! Please let me know when you want the skeleton key back. I hope it's not anytime soon. I'm kind of busy...looking...and trying out all the beds like Goldilocks.
Speaking of green and sheets, a theme seems to be emerging: Alison Tyler just inaugurated a new online hot spot, The Boudoir Blog, where the bed is always the main character. Here's mine.
Enjoy your rolls in my hay!
PS: Don't sit in this postcard's foreground chair. It's reserved for Charlie Brown.
I am truly chuffed, as my British friends would say, to announce that Black Lace, an erotic fiction imprint of Virgin Books (Random House; UK), has bought two (!) of my short stories for their upcoming (6 August 2009) anthology, Sexy Little Numbers (UK version here), the debut of an annual collection presenting the best erotica stories written by women.
From the Amazon.com product description:
"Sexy Little Numbers" will combine humour and attitude with wildly imaginative writing from all over the world.
I am also chuffed because the Black Lace editor, the dashing and discerning Adam Nevill, said some awfully nice things about my work. They brought tears to my eyes, they did.
Being in a short story anthology is like being a flower in a botanical garden. In this case, with the delicious and wild Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex, edited by the incomparable Alison Tyler, there are 59 other specimens to consider and enjoy, all of them rare and exotic -- just waiting to be smelled, fondled, licked by the sun, feel a little special.
So it has been recently with "Faceless Filly Seeks Rider," my contribution to this beautiful arrangement of literary flora. Its first shout-out arrived February 13th from an Amazon customer reviewer, Amy Stapleford, who called it "hot, clever, and oh-so-smart." As if that wasn't enough of a Vitamin D tickle, on February 28th, in a full-page book review on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, reviewer Kathleen Bradean, a fine author herself, chose six stories to highlight and had this to say about mine:
And while I may have a soft spot for established couples, EllaRegina's "Faceless Filly Seeks Rider," is a sex with a stranger fantasy that got me going. In the form of a Craigslist ad, it is cheeky, smart, funny, and deliciously dirty. Here's a story that can quote French pornographic literature and make it seem earthy instead of pretentious.
Thank you Amy and Kathleen, for smelling my flower, so to speak, speaking of earth.
One thousand fragrant rose petals shall rain on my brilliant writer friend Jeremy Edwards for alerting me to both of these instances. (I was too busy with my nose in the other flowers). Jeremy's wonderful "You in Your Apricot Panties" -- which I like to call "a character study of a delicate underthing" -- about 100 pages away from me in this particular collection, was also given a tip of the solar hat in both venues.
My wish here -- and with every anthology I've been in and will be a part of hence -- is for each lovely flower to ultimately be given its moment of attention and recognition under glowing rays of sunlight. This would make the gardener and all the botanical specimens she has carefully and lovingly assembled very smiley and happy, indeed.
I love Google Alerts. I use them all the time to keep track of different things, including Internet Erotica Thievery. This happens more frequently than one might think, if one thinks about this topic at all. I usually make alerts for a random selection of sentences within a particular posted story of mine, whether here or on another authorized site. In this way I find out when stories, in some shape or form, are being used without permission -- invariably on a porn site that has, of course, a fake untraceable address overseas, usually in China. Once I got on the telephone and woke up some poor guy in the Czech Republic. He got rid of the scofflaw but quick. Mostly it's like tracking homing pigeons but I gave up stamp collecting and this keeps me busy and off the streets in my downtime.
Often, the Google Alert will direct me to a website that has nothing to do with anything but has picked up on some word within my selected text and has subsequently loaded paragraphs of my writing as content on that site. The work seems to be done by a combination of robot and human being because by the time I get to the scene of the supposed crime any traces of my words are gone.
Today's Google Alert made me laugh. It tracked this phrase:
"He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis"
These 14 words can be found within E-I-E-I-O, a 580-word shorty I wrote in September for an online contest given by the lovely and eternally inspirational Alison Tyler. But today, with its clickable header: Penis Pencil Tops Beige (penis, tops, and beige appear in E-I-E-I-O), the Google Alert led me to a page full of interesting merchandise -- fun spring term back-to-school supplies for the kids! Handy when your erasers are rubbed down -- this happens to me a lot. But, seriously, a dozen for $2.73! "Work great as taste testers at parties." I think they look like pig feet (or snouts), which, in fact, is very apropos regarding E-I-E-I-O.
The original inspiration, presented to us by Alison: this drawing by the wonderful artist and creator of Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes. He ceased activity for a while so maybe this was Google's special "post it" signal to me that he is back in business and that I needed to post another story. Thanks again to Alison Tyler and Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes and thank you, Google, for the Freudian nudge!
It was like Strip Poker except there were no cards or chips. W. and I, on the sofa, giving each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation even though we were both very much alive. W. made me dizzy. He could make me come just by kissing. I had to sit, or better, lie down, such was the vertigo he gave me. Once he kissed me against a wooden gate and if the structure had not been there, neither would I have been for long, turned to vapor or ash and swirled in the wind, a confetti scattering of desire. So, to kiss W. I needed architecture, preferably the interior variety.
So, the sofa. Green velvet, the kind you buy for the rest of your life. I tried not to think of how many kisses, besides ours, had been exchanged there. It was not healthy to dwell on the past lives of furniture. W. and I had a game. Whenever either of us was close to coming we had to make an animal noise and take off a piece of our clothing. It was easy with W. Soon I was mooing. He laughed and pointed to my short skirt. Off it came, W. pleased that I'd worn no underpants. We resumed our game and he barked. I undid his fly and his trousers flew out the window, disembodied and running, like in a cartoon. W. put his serpent tongue as far as it would go into my mouth. He brought me to the brink again and I whinnied. My garter belt. Our lips together once more and I made him crow. His shirt. Then W. on top of me in gray tank undershirt and gray thermal underwear, his full weight -- twice my own -- pinning me like a butterfly in a specimen case, his cock unquestionably aimed at its target. Before long I was meowing. I pulled my black cashmere sweater over my head.
We had to pause. I needed air. I walked around W.'s bedroom in what was left of my outfit -- a crinkly black silk camisole, its straps falling down, grey thigh-high sheer stockings with black-ribboned bands like chokers at their tops, red patent leather high-heeled pumps. W. liked me to keep those on, no matter what else came off. I also wore a feathered cap, easier to imagine than describe. Its thin elastic string hooked under my chin, something à la Marlene Dietrich although I probably looked more like a circus monkey. If W. played an organ grinder we'd be all set. I paced the room surrounded by beige 1950s horizontally-striped wallpaper. He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis, the biggest I'd ever seen. It needed its own building. W. enjoyed watching me perambulate before him, half dressed, especially when the combination of what I was wearing was the result of his command.
He pulled me onto the bed. I'd had enough air. His mouth was on mine again and his endless legs held me like a nutcracker. After a few shared breaths he growled and I dug my stilettos into his thighs. The long underwear landed on his wood floor. Then my turn with a squawk (the camisole) and his with a howl (the gray undershirt). We were left with just socks (W.) and stockings and pumps (me). It was at this point that we could travel beyond the tantric barnyard and the second part of the game would begin.
Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
This website was reviewed today by the lovely and sex-positive EssinEm on the fabulous Jane's Guide! Their slogan: Where we waste our time, so you don't have to!
I like what is said about my erotica. The only "criticism," so to speak: there isn't enough of my erotica here. Fortunately, this can be remedied.
I am delighted to announce that the much-awaited short story anthology, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8,is now available at fine bookstores everywhere.
Edited by the discerning Maxim Jakubowski and published by Constable & Robinson (UK) and Running Press (USA), this annual volume includes my story "The Lonely Onanista," as well as works by a veritable Who's Who of stellar eroticists whose writing I greatly admire, some of whom I am proud to call my friends.
My story BLIND TASTING got a lovely write-up today from my generous and supportive friend Donna George Storey. She said some very nice things with her usual spot-on turn of phrase and linked my work thematically to recent events in Blogville, both local and global.
Writing can be such a lonely endeavor that such moments of uplift and encouragement, from a fellow scribe whose works I appreciate likewise, taste very sweet indeed -- no pun intended.
Thank you, Donna! I lift my dripping Caipirinha glass in your direction!
Below, Carmen Miranda, singing Tico Tico, paralleling her cameo appearance in my story.
All month you can read BLIND TASTING, my suburban tale of debauchery -- a ménage à huit variation. It's featured in the February 2009 Erotica Fiction Gallery on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.
BLIND TASTING is the story of four couples who share a gourmet palate, among other delights. Something is surely cooking in this one...
Literary erotica, often with a surreal element. Quirky, filthy yet refined.
"Glorious madness!"
"Wonderfully strange."
"Original and fresh."
"A lovely fusion of the surreal and the sublime."
"Intelligent, sensual and deliciously filthy."
"A master with language and magical ideas."
"Witty, inventive and sexy."
"A quirky talent for words and stories."
"Superb, surprising, surreal."
"EllaRegina is a pervert of the highest order."
"EllaRegina is a very talented writer who knows how to weave a tale and how to make the eroticism sparkle." — (Review) ; Ashley Lister, Erotica Readers & Writers Association
"...delightfully playful story telling." — (Review) ; Steven Hart, Erotica Revealed
is now available at fine bookstores everywhere.
Posts
